Through the Dark
by Mrs Dizzy
Summary: It's the first Christmas since her father's death and Molly is glad she's going to the Baker Street Christmas gathering. Taking the scene from ASiB and reinterpreting it slightly.


_A/N: Partly inspired by KT Tunstall's song "Through the Dark". My other story "Eyes Open" may be considered related to this story. First posted on my tumblr -ditsypersephone- with an unnecessary and lengthy explanation on how it came about._

_Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock does not belong to me, I only asked the characters to come and play with me for a while._

_Thank you for reading._

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**Through the Dark**

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It would be the first Christmas without her dad and Molly felt the loss more than ever.

Her mum had invited her over to Sydney where she now lived with her second husband. Molly's parents had gotten divorced when she'd just started university. As she'd never really been close to her mother and the distance had estranged them even more, Molly had declined. Somehow the promise of spending Christmas with her bodies seemed more appealing than spending a sun-filled holiday with her mother passively-aggressively disapproving of her life choices.

She'd spent every Christmas Day with her father, as it also happened to be his birthday. They'd celebrate the day quietly, having a nice meal in front of the telly, enjoying the Christmas specials and exchanging silly gifts. Always an extra one for dad, for his birthday.

It naturally had come as a shock when, a year ago, the doctor had given the bad news. A simple yet persistent cough had led to a diagnosis of cancer and, at most, twelve months to live.

Molly had considered taking a sabbatical but instead her father had decided to move to London – "When I was a lad, I always thought I'd come to the city and have a grand adventure."

She'd found a bigger flat for a price she could afford, though it meant a slightly longer commute. However, it was such a small sacrifice compared to the convenience of having more space for her dad and being able to spend the remaining time with him.

It'd been easy to forget most days that he was terminally ill. He'd always had a knack of hiding his feelings and leaving a happy front for people to see. For a while, she was able to pretend that everything was fine, even harboring the hope that the doctors had gotten it wrong. But she'd seen the lab results, knew what the cancer had done to his body, what it will continue to do to his body The pathologist in her knew what was coming.

He'd caught a cold in summer and it stayed with him until he passed away quietly in August.

Her mother had flown over to be with her at the funeral – "You've only got me left, poppet"she'd said and it had made Molly feel intensely lonely.

The house that she'd grown up in had been put on the market before her dad had moved to London and, as if to finally close that chapter in her life, had been recently bought by a young couple wanting to start a family.

As she took a week to clear the house of the remaining things – most of it had been taken care of while her father was still alive, wanting to make sure he left the important things to her – Molly felt jealous of the new owners and the life they were planning.

She felt stuck and, now with her dad gone, she didn't see any way of moving forward. It seemed that all the plans and dreams she'd had when she was younger had fallen to pieces or had turned into nightmares.

Youthful innocence had her believe that if she was good and did everything right, things would eventually fall into place. That she'd get her dream job and then meet a nice person and fall in love. Perhaps get married, have children. All the usual stuff one thought made a happy life.

Yet despite all efforts she'd put into her private life, that particular area had never really worked out for her. With her last attempt at romance ending in disaster, Molly had wondered if maybe she was one of those people who would never find the one.

As she steadily moved into her mid-thirties, it wasn't even necessarily "The One" she was looking for but just someone. Someone kind and caring and loving and interested in building a life with her.

It didn't help of course, that for reasons unfathomable to her on occasion, her heart had set its sights on a wonderful genius that was oblivious to her as a woman.

It seemed to her the only thing she'd gotten right was her career. She'd worked bloody hard for it and felt immense pride at the accomplishment. And for a while, not having the bloke and the house and the garden and the children didn't even matter. She had a job that fulfilled her and life was good.

Yet with the hole left by her father's passing, she knew that it was no longer enough to sustain her.

Because thinking about it too much overwhelmed her to the point of despair, she tried to ignore it as best as she could by concentrating on her work.

But she could only fool herself for so long.

**xxxxx**

The invitation had come from John, two weeks before the event.

As it had become their habit, Molly and John had gone off for a short break, leaving Sherlock to finish with his work on his own.

John had told her that she was invited to Christmas drinks at Baker Street - "It would be lovely to have you there, Molly. To have you over for drinks for once rather than delivery or picking up of…you know."

She'd pretended to mentally go over her calendar and was thankful that John had enough tact to allow her the small lie. She accepted with a pleased smile, grateful for the invite as it meant she wasn't spending the whole of Christmas by herself.

Volunteering for the holiday shift had seemed such a good idea at first but as London slowly transformed under the hustle and bustle of the season, Molly wasn't so sure she'd survive the holidays with as much fortitude as she thought she had.

In an attempt to cheer herself up, she'd taken her day off to go present shopping for John and Mrs. Hudson. She'd become rather friendly with their landlady over the year, having been offered tea and biscuits on occasion while she was over to bring or dispose of various body parts. She'd gotten the lady an assortment of herbal teas and handmade soaps.

For John she'd found a mug with a print of an anatomically correct heart, much like the ones found in medical textbooks. The mug itself was meant as a reference to the fact that every time they had tea together in the little break room at Barts, they joked that John and Sherlock should have their own mugs in the cupboards, like the actual employees.

The heart print seemed appropriate not only because he was a doctor but because he once said to her that "I know he's blood and flesh, I've seen him in the mornings. But I sometimes do wonder if there is a heart beating inside all of that" pointing at Sherlock, who looked almost otherworldly in his serene concentration.

On the day of the small gathering, Molly rushed home to shower and change. The previous night, she'd decided to wear the dress she'd bought earlier this year. As if trying to defy fate, she'd purchased the dressier garment and had convinced her father to buy a rather smart suit. The plan, as mad as it'd seemed, had been to dress up and go out on Christmas and celebrate his birthday in style. It'd been wishful thinking and false hope, but they'd needed it to get through the hard times.

The suit had since been donated to charity but she saw no reason why she couldn't wear the dress. Even though it seemed to be a bit too much for drinks at friends'.

She'd almost changed her mind, opting to don something less flashy and more her style, but ultimately – defiantly – decided to wear the dress. In some small way, she'd still be celebrating Christmas with her dad and it left her feeling peaceful, something she hadn't felt since a very long time.

Due to a busy workload, she'd been forced to multitask painting her nails and wrapping John and Mrs. Hudson's gifts. She hoped they didn't mind the rather crooked job she did but it was a bit tricky doing it while waiting for her nails to dry. Thankfully, Sherlock's had been picked and wrapped months before and she made sure it wouldn't get damaged on the way over.

It was an old book on beekeeping she'd found by chance one Saturday while she and her dad had gone to a car boot sale, trying to flog off some items from their house. It'd immediately reminded her of a previous conversation with the consulting detective, so she'd bought it for two pounds, intending to give it to him at some point.

By the time she was ready, she realized that she was running late and in her haste knocked over some wrapping paraphernalia. Picking up a silver bow, she decided on a whim to wear it. Using a spare bobby pin, she placed it in her hair and smiling at herself in the mirror said "Merry Christmas, Molly Brown."

Snow was falling as she rode in the cab to Baker Street and as she watched London go by, lit up in a golden glow, she felt stirrings of anticipation and excitement. And it felt good. She was determined to enjoy the evening, knowing that she needed the good cheer of friends after a difficult year.

Making her way up the stairs as the note on the door instructed, she heard the familiar baritone. Predictably, it caused the butterflies in her stomach to flutter. Though it hadn't been the intention, she hoped that Sherlock would notice her in the dress. He certainly had to notice the earrings she was wearing. With that silly thought making her smile, she bustled through the door, greeting the room.

Sherlock's less than enthused greeting knocked her slightly off-balance, not that she had much to begin with when he was around. The strong, independent, levelheaded woman in her hated how she was reduced to nervous giggles and shuffling movements around him. But the part that had this perplexing, irrepressible crush on him couldn't help but look at him every two seconds or so.

She supposed she had to be grateful that he seemed wholly uninterested, yet couldn't deny the yearning to be noticed by him.

Partly to distract herself and mostly due to good manners, she turned to the other guests and made an effort to engage them in small talk. She hated small talk, mostly because she was spectacularly bad at it. She was perfectly capable of discussing, in much detail and with great authority, topics pertaining to science, research and, obviously, her particular chosen field. But make her trade pleasantries with people and she'll inevitably end up saying well-meant things in the wrong way.

She was used to getting odd looks from people and honestly didn't mind them much. It didn't bother her if people tended to politely slither away after one of her faux-pas. After all, why would she want to spend time with people who only cared about trivialities?

It didn't even bother her too much when Sherlock interjected with his comments. Especially as she thought that he was the last person with the right to judge her considering his lack of social skills. Still fiercely willing to make the best of the evening, Molly kept at engaging the others in conversation.

Only when he really started having a go at her, in that beautiful but mocking voice of his, did she allow his words to sink in. With an economy of strokes, Sherlock had cut through the protective layers of false optimism and determined bravado to expose the wounded heart she'd desperately tried to forget for a while.

Her insides clenched and she could feel the hot stings of anger and embarrassment.

'You berk! You utter, utter berk!' she thought as she listened to his continuing ramble of words, followed rapidly by 'Why do you let him do this to you, Molly?' and 'You're not going to cry in front of him.'

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always."

Suddenly, she felt completely disappointed with everything and everyone. And acutely aware that she was alone in the world. The only person who had truly and completely loved her was dead and she was extremely furious and deeply sad.

And in the next instant, Sherlock was apologizing and kissing her on the cheek and leaving her even more confused.

Trying to sort through the emotions his words and actions had stirred in her, she could only watch him as he picked up the box from the mantelpiece and excused himself from the room. She hated the feeling of concern that had snuck in amongst the frustration and resentment.

Sherlock's exit rapidly ended the party and she was rather glad to be leaving so early. Handing her gifts to Mrs. Hudson and John, she thanked them for the invite and wished everyone happy holidays and went home.

Tired and drained from the night, Molly wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a year. But when she got home, she found herself feeling restless and edgy, the evening replaying in her mind.

And she found herself talking to a dead man.

"I hate that you're gone, dad. I hate being alone. I hate that I hate being alone. I hate that even though I know that he'll never see me that way I still keep trying. He's a bloody idiot and bloody brilliant and I hate him. I hate him because he so obviously cares about John and Mrs. Hudson but he doesn't care about me. I mean, he didn't even notice that you died and he notices everything! Or maybe not everything…because he didn't even know that the bloody gift was for him! The absolute git. And he humiliates me in front of everyone and thinks that a kiss will fix it all. It wasn't even a real kiss! A peck on a cheek is supposed to make everything better? Ha, Sherlock Holmes! It doesn't!"

Exhausted, she sat down on her couch, tears burning her eyes.

"Nothing will ever fix this because you're gone and I can't change that."

She hadn't cried at the funeral, hadn't cried until tonight and it seemed all the grief she'd been carrying so quietly was pouring out of her.

Her mobile rang and she ignored it at first, too wound up by the crying. But then it rang again and she remembered that she was on call. Seeing that it was a withheld number, she debated answering it but then curiosity got the better of her.

The voice was female and posh and identified herself as the personal assistant of a man whose last name she only knew too well. As Molly listened to her, she somehow quickly managed to make the connection between Sherlock's abrupt exit earlier and the request to examine a body that was on its way to her morgue. She was told that a car was being sent for her.

It arrived sooner than anticipated and all Molly could do was give her face a quick wash and changed into the first clothes she found. She left the black dress crumpled on her bedroom floor, knowing she'd be giving it to charity. She didn't notice that she'd put on a red Christmas jumper until she was washing her hands at the hospital.

It inexplicably made her laugh.


End file.
